The Last Crow of Yharnam: Act II
by Optimum Ace
Summary: The second installment of the trilogy. The Hunter struggles to cope with his losses while continuing forward to make something of the sacrifice. Torn between internalizing his pain and detaching from it altogether, the Nightmare threatens to strip away the last vestiges of his humanity as the hunter grows increasingly bloodthirsty. Oh dear, Good Hunter, What would Maria think?


Act II

The mouldering, putrescent ruin of the fishing hamlet promised relentless nausea to all but the most iron-stomached interlopers. Characterized by the pungent stench of rotting sea life and wet rotting wooden structures, the odor stuck like tree sap to anyone foolish enough to slog through the cursed village. Mummified mollusks and barnacle-like growths crunched underfoot, and some unknowable ichor sealed the cracks of every hinge. Sagging roofs creaked in protest of the wicked ocean gales, their shingles only kept in place by countless years of caked-on sea salt.

A horribly mutated troupe of the hamlet's denizens, as sea-rotted as the village itself, ambled about their dilapidated home. Each engaged themselves in busywork the purpose of which, in all likelihood, made sense only through the cracked lens of their twisted minds. They prowled every road, alley, and walkway throughout the once sleepy village as willing slaves to an eldritch purpose.

Garvan, the Last Crow of Yharnam, suffered the misfortune of repeated encounters with the savage fish-people as he trespassed in their home. Such was the risk taken when scouring the deepest layer of the Nightmare for the darkest secrets of Byrgenwerth and their Old Hunters. The monstrous villagers possessed surprising strength and proved agile in short bursts; the crowfeather-clad hunter learned quickly to take great care when combating the fanatical mutants. While powerful in his own right, the hamlet's denizens could overwhelm him with superior numbers.

Rather than inspiring fear, the creatures repulsed Garvan. It sickened him to see what they had been reduced to by the corrupting touch of the Nightmare. Each monster evidenced an atrocity committed by the overzealous, immoral flailings of Byrgenwerth as they made their first push toward looking beyond the veil. The foundational bricks of the Healing Church and Yharnam's intellectual elite were laid with mortar wrought from the blood of these sorry souls. To think that his beloved Maria had been a part of the barbarism inflicted on the fishing hamlet drove a sharp pain through his heart. The events of those dark days had destroyed her not once, but twice.

Following her attempted suicide in the waking world, Lady Maria fell into the Nightmare instead of the Hunter's Dream. The Great One slain by the Byrgenwerth expedition, bereaved and infuriated by the blasphemous actions of the Old Hunters, cursed them and warped the Healing Church's own sanctuary of dreams into a prison of nightmares. In a cruel twist of fate it was Lady Maria who had been set to the task of guarding the Nightmare's innermost sanctum. Garvan encountered her first when she barred his path to the heart of the Nightmare. They fought time after time as the Last Crow of Yharnam challenged her for access deeper into the cursed land of secrets. In time, as Garvan accumulated what knowledge he could of Maria, the pair became close. He fell in love with the guardian of the Astral Clocktower and sought to protect her from the horrible truths he discovered of her past-what Maria herself had forgotten.

For a time the status quo remained, Maria defeated Garvan at the conclusion of each visit. Only when she tricked him into exposing that he had been throwing their duels on purpose did the rhythm of their comfortable relationship shift. She forced the truth from him and Garvan witnessed the woman he loved shatter inside like thin ice beneath a heavy boot. Unwilling to let Garvan linger forever bound to the Nightmare for her sake, and to see that which she caused undone, Lady Maria insisted on one final duel. When Garvan could not bring himself to deal the final blow, she took his hand and dealt it for him. You see, Maria loved him, too. The lone candle keeping the darkness from crashing down on Garvan went out in his arms.

Bitterness and self-loathing flooded into the aching emptiness she left in his heart. The Last Crow of Yharnam felt weak and foolish; only by Maria's willing sacrifice had Garvan made it as far as he did. Strength came not from muscle, nor arcana, nor blood echoes, but from character, and Garvan believed that Maria's strength far surpassed his own. He resigned himself to staying forever in the endless loop of the Nightmare, so long as it meant being with Maria. She saved him from such a fate. She saved him from _himself_.

When faced, then, with the warped remnants of the fishing hamlet, the Last Crow of Yharnam reminded himself of his beloved's sacrifice and swallowed the bile crawling up the back of his throat. Any pity or guilt he might have felt would be wasted on monsters. Nothing could be done for the lingering ghouls of the village save for ending the Hunter's Nightmare. Only then would there be peace for the afflicted souls.

A steady downpour soaked the crowfeather-clad hunter as he strode through the narrow and jagged hamlet lanes. The clinging moisture sent tendrils of corpse-like chill worming deep into his flesh where they coiled like serpents around his bones. Water ran in streams down the feathers of Garvan's cloak and spilled into the mud at his feet. Channelling the rainfall much in the same way it did splatters of blood, the protection of Garvan's Cainhurst helm kept his vision clear despite the pelting deluge. With a little luck, the hunter hoped to reach the lighthouse looming in the distance without further interference.

A high-pitched scree issued from an upcoming alley, and Garvan's gait slowed to a stop. Three hunched figures rounded the corner and turned onto the larger road where Garvan stood. The slimy secretions from their pale silver-blue flesh sent the rain water sluicing down their mottled bodies as if they were coated in oil. Garvan hypothesized, after his initial encounters with the aberrations, that the oily ichor kept the cold rain from inflicting upon them the same penetrating chills he suffered. At the very least it must have kept their bodies insulated to preserve whatever small amount of natural warmth the creatures still possessed.

One of the creatures pointed at Garvan with its crude spear, and the other two issued hissed. The crowfeather-clad hunter threw his cloak back over his shoulders to reveal the Blade of Mercy clenched in his right fist. Holstering the hunter pistol in his off hand, Garvan gripped the Blade of Mercy with both hands and split it into its twin trick form. Even through the stormy gloom, the siderite weapon gleamed resplendent silver.

"This is all the mercy I've left to offer," Garvan said, challenging the creatures. He scratched at the open wound of Maria's sacrifice, reminding himself that she died so that he would carry on. Searing pain burned in his chest and he latched onto it-used it to bolster his fighting spirit. Beneath it all, a feeling of disgust skittered around the back of his mind. What would _she_ think of his inability to motivate through anything other than self-loathing? Would she be disappointed? Frustrated, maybe? Certainly not _proud_.

Garvan doubted that the devolved minds of the creatures could even comprehend that he wanted to _free _them from the shackles of the Nightmare-or maybe they simply did not desire freedom. Frustration oozed into the concoction of bitterness and hate simmering in his stomach.

"This Nightmare has endured long enough," Garvan said, resolved to fight on, at least for the time being.

The fish-people screeched their feral battlecries to the wind and charged at the crowfeather-clad hunter. The hunter sneered.

Flipping the right hand blade into a backhand grip, Garvan sidestepped the spear thrust of the leading creature and sliced upward into the meat of its upper arm. A glittering arc of silver passed with ease through flesh and bone, a thick splatter of crimson blood trailing behind like a comet's tail. The monster's arm fell away from the stump of its diminished limb, and gouts of arterial spray erupted in its absence. The mutant might have howled some inhuman screech of pain if not for the downsweep of Garvan's returning falling sword skimmed the tops of the beast's hunched shoulders and removed its head which fell into the mud with a muddy splat.

Back in motion before the mutant's headless corpse collapsed, Garvan lunged forward and dodged left to avoid the twin farming rakes raised overhead. The mutant wielding threw all its weight into the rakes and drove them hard into the ground. Several feathers fluttered away on the wind, ripped from the hunter's crowfeather cloak by the near miss. Garvan twisted around and plunged his backhanded blade into the creature's exposed back. Sensing the third and final creature closing in, the hunter pivoted and levered the skewered monster around by the blade buried in its back to use as a shield.

A large cleaver-like blade split the skewered monster from collarbone to sternum with a wet crack which ended the wounded creature's struggle. A quick sidestep cleared Garvan of the cleaver's return arc before he moved in to strike. The hunter coiled, bending at the knees, and sprang at the creature driving his shoulder into its chest. The monster stumbled back, and Garvan swept his backhanded weapon over to bat the oversized cleaver harder along its too-wide return path. Desperate to keep hold of its weapon, the creature twisted to compensate for the added force, and the hunter took advantage of the creature's compromised defense. Garvan thrust his forward-gripped sword straight into the mutant's throat and cranked the hilt until he felt the monster's spinal column separate. The aberration went limp immediately.

Withdrawing his blade from the corpse, he shook off the excess gore with a flick of his discontent rattling around in the pit of his stomach did not dissolve with the corpses of his fallen prey. Garvan lingered studying the impressions the slain fish people left in the mud. Lost in his thoughts for a moment too long, he did not hear the wailing cry until it was too late. An explosion of crippling pain blossomed in Garvan's left shoulder accompanied by a burst of black mist. Acting on instinct, the Hunter of Hunters dove away from the direction of the attack, rolling on his good shoulder and rounding on his assailant. Swarming apparitions in the shape of misty black skulls moaned their torment into the gale, each dissipating in the space he occupied just a heartbeat before..

The single cursed spirit that found its mark burrowed through his flesh like a colony of crazed maggots, unable or unwilling to distinguish living tissue from dead. Biting back a howl of agony as the tainted energy bore deeper into him, Garvan yanked a blood vial injector from a loop on his belt and jammed the needle into his thigh. Instant relief washed over him when he depressed the plunger and flooded his veins with the questionable blood of some unknown Healing Church Blood Saint. In an instant the fortified blood expelled the curse from him and weaved his flayed tissue back together.

Down the lane, Garvan spotted his assailant-another of the mutant villagers. The creature wore a dirty white sheet over its body like an executioner's robe, the tail of which dragged through the mud in its wake. It held a long staff in its hands, the top affixed with various baubles and charms which Garvan did not recognize. When it began waving the staff over its head in clumsy circles, the hunter realized that he could not close the distance between them before a second barrage of vile spirits appeared. He turned to run as the first skull materialized from the black mist gathering at the mutant sorcerer's feet.

With the mud pulling at his greaves hampered the Hunter of Hunter's usual agility. Passing from the lane into a wide open space, likely the village square, Garvan saw nothing that might offer sufficient cover until he spotted the crumbling cobblestone well off to his left. He veered toward the well, sliding in the muck and struggling to retain his footing. The maneuver cost him some of the precious space separating himself and the encroaching skull apparitions. Garvan heard their moaning voices drawing closer, fighting the wind for dominance in his ringing ears.

Nearing the well's low stone wall, Garvan leapt. Clearing the wall, he crashed with teeth-rattling force into the opposite wall and clawed for a handhold. His fingers found purchase on the rungs of a rotting wood ladder and arrested his fall. Behind him, the skulls struck the well's wall and burst into immaterial clouds of mist shaking free several large flagstones from the well's lip. They crashed down on Garvan's head and shoulders; the helmet protected him from the worst of it but the jarring weight disoriented him. Garvan felt the rotting wood rungs surrender to the abuse and give way. He caught the next rung but it, too, gave beneath his hands. Snatching at the passing rungs which flitted by at increasing speed, he finally caught another which did not yield to his weight. Righting himself, Garvan set his feet on the rungs below to distribute his mass before descending the remaining length of ladder with care.

The well appeared to draw from a modest underground cavern with a natural pillar of solid bedrock connecting floor and ceiling in the center. Garvan may have taken in some of the cavern's other features if not for the deafening roar that rolled through the chamber. A creature much like the mutant villagers, but at least four times as massive, lumbered around the pillar to face the hunter. It bellowed again, and Garvan observed the multiple rows of sharp teeth lining the creature's very wide maw. In its hands, the behemoth brandished an improvised mace of sorts, little more than a club with meathooks fastened to the head.

"No respite for the wicked," Garvan said, muttering under his breath. With speed the hunter had not expected, the giant monster lunged at him. It flailed its weapon in a clumsy flurry that the crowfeather-clad hunter struggled to avoid on account of its sheer size and reach. Lunging and rolling into a somersault, Garvan created some much needed distance from the monstrosity. Reaching over his shoulder, he pulled Ludwig's Holy Sword from his back and prepared to face the beast. The shark-toothed giant would not be the first massive beast the Hunter of Hunters faced down, nor the most deadly. However, Garvan did not relish the thought of being returned to the Hunter's Dream by means of those jagged teeth.

Again the monster bore down on the hunter, swatting at him with its hooked club. Garvan rolled between its legs and swung upward with his sword into the monster's thigh. The blade carved deep into the flesh, and gushing crimson blood gave way to a pale green ooze. Issuing an angry bark, the giant twisted and snapped its jaws at the hunter. Garvan ducked back, avoiding the snapping jaws and swinging his blade into the side of the behemoth's creature yowled, bringing a gnarled hand up to paw at the fresh laceration. A profuse flow of blood and puss streamed down its fingers, and for a moment the hunter thought he seized the upper hand.

_Thud_.

A heavy crash rocked the cavern. Dust and chunks of debris fell from the ceiling and splashed into the shallow water. The Hunter of Hunters risked a glance over his shoulder and discovered a _second _shark-mouthed giant crouched low on all fours.

It allowed no time to wonder after its hiding place. Like its wounded sibling, the creature bellowed and charged the hunter. Attempting to dodge to the side as not to backpedal into the original monster's range, Garvan gambled on being faster than his opponent.

Clawed fingertips raked across his shoulder and sent him skittering across the shallow water like a skipping stone. Though only a glancing blow, the immense strength of the behemoth promised to make the hunter pay dearly for the slightest mistake.

Garvan's left arm hung uselessly at his side, the meat of his shoulder and upper arm reduced to a dripping mass of mangled flesh. The second giant mutant began stomping towards him again, and the hunter knew he would not have enough time to retrieve a blood vial. Hastening its stride, the creature hunkered on all fours and galloped at Garvan like a wolf beast. When it neared, the shark-toothed monstrosity dove at the hunter head first. Its mouth opened wide, ready to snap shut with crushing force.

Improvising, Garvan dropped his right knee to the ground and turned his wounded side to the creature. He propped the flat of Ludwig's Holy Sword on his raised knee and planted the pommel of the sword in the ground to brace like a spearman facing a cavalry charge. The up-angled sword pierced through the roof of the attacking monster's mouth and plunged deeply into its skull. The massive mutant went still and settled into the low water with a deep, wheezing groan.

Finally recovering from the grievous wound maring its face, the original giant turned its attention back to the wounded hunter. Unfazed by the death of its kin, it stomped towards him brandishing the hook-mace.

Garvan yanked on the hilt of his sword, but given his condition, found he lacked the strength to free it. The weapon refused to budge, forcing the hunter to abandon Ludwig's Holy Sword where it lodged in the dead giant's head. He scrambled to retrieve a blood vial from his belt and jam it into his leg as the lumbering shark-mouthed giant approached. Throwing himself flat at the last moment, Garvan avoided a wide sweep of the monster's barbed club.

Garvan rolled onto his back and retrieved his pistol from its hip holster. The mutant whirled around in search of the hunter. It spotted him on the ground and loomed over him, teeth bared. Garvan took aim with his pistol; if he missed, no doubt the shark-toothed giant would send him back to the Hunter's Dream in a gruesome fashion. Garvan released a slow, controlled breath and tightened his finger around the trigger. Smoke and sparks erupted from the gun's barrel with a thunderous crash.

The giant's head jerked back, and the beast fell backwards into the water. Garvan's ears rang from the loudness of a pistol report in an enclosed space. He kept the gun's muzzle trained on the prone mutant while struggled to his feet. Wary, the hunter watched the creature's corpse for a solid minute before holstering the firearm and moving to retrieve the sword lodged in the other giant mutant's skull.

Even with his wounds healed and the strength of both arms, it took Garvan three attempts to dislodge the greatsword from the dead monster's jagged maw. He nearly fell on his backside when it finally pulled free. Off to the side of the fallen shark-toothed giant a shaft of dim, dusty light descended from the well's 's backward stumble put him in just the right position to notice a faint shimmer just beneath the surface of the water.

Returning Ludwig's Holy Sword to his back, Garvan approached the glittering object and hunkered down to get a better look. It appeared to be some sort of blade, but the spreading murk of the dead monster's blood obscured most of the details. Plunging his hands into the water, Garvan wrapped his hand around the weapon's hilt and removed it from its resting place. He recognized the sword at once, and a confused mixture of awe and anguish swept over him. He collapsed onto his knees with a splash. The Last Crow of Yharnam just rediscovered Rakuyo, Lady Maria's abandoned weapon.

*;*;*

Garvan struggled to remember how long he knelt there in the well. Had it been minutes or hours? The hunter could not remember. He _did_ know, however, that sulking in the gloom did nothing to bring him closer to ending the Hunter's Nightmare.

He cradled his beloved's lost blade in his arms, all the while feeling pathetic for soaking in the small measure of comfort it provided him. Nothing else remained of Maria to remember her by. A fresh wave of self-loathing spilled like oil into his mind, poisoning his thoughts as he considered the reason it remained when she had gone. Maria cast it away, unable to stomach the evil for which it had been employed. Garvan ran his fingers over the ornate engravings winding up the weapon's hilt. Was he selfish, or maybe even foolish, for finding some modicum of solace in the instrument of death she dare not hold onto?

It might have done some good if he could cry again. Shedding some of his pain through the manifestation of tears could lighten the weight of grief in head and heart. No tears came, though; the utter exhaustion of his unending hunt robbed him of the ability. Like any other wound it began to scar over in the process of healing, hardening him against the torments of Yharnam and the Nightmare. Each loss drained him of a little more emotional energy and left a creeping numbness in its wake. There, at the bottom of the well, Garvan clung the last mooring line of his humanity.

Finally, the Last Crow of Yharnam rose to his feet. He sheathed the Rakuyo on his hip in place of his Blade of Mercy and kept the siderite blade in his hand for the time being. Making his way back to the well ladder, Garvan began the treacherous ascent back to the hamlet's former market square.

Garvan took the remaining fish mutants patrolling the square by surprise. Nobody ever returned from the well-not with the two shark-mouthed giants lurking below. Unprepared for an attack by an interloper they assumed dead without question, denizens of the corrupted village fell to the hunter's swift blade. He dispatched them without any bravado seeking to carve a swift path deeper into the hamlet, determined find a messenger lamp to return to the Dream.

When the Last Crow of Yharnam arrived at the lighthouse standing sentinel over the fishing hamlet, he met with yet another unexpected encounter. Simon the Harrowed lay on the rickety floorboards, blood pooling out beneath him. From the state of his tattered garb and brutalized body, it appeared that someone got to Simon before Garvan could.

"You," Garvan said, snarling. Rage struck him like a lightning rod, and it felt _good_. The feeling of _anything _rising above the hazel of numbness inspired a sudden greediness for more. He latched onto the hate and nurtured the small spark in the hopes of building a steady fire. The muscles in his shoulders drew taut and pulled at the tendons in his arms, hands curling into white-knuckled fists.

"Hunter of Hunters," Simon wheezed. "I-"

Garvan did not care to hear the rest. He surged forward and seized Simon by his collar, pulling the injured man to his feet. Garvan slammed his back into the weather-rotted wall, and the whole structure swayed, groaning in protest of the violence. Simon wretched and coughed, blood and spittle dribbling down his chin. Without a spare thought for pity, the Hunter of Hunters brought the Blade of Mercy to the former Healing Church hunter's throat.

"You bastard!" Garvan shouted in Simon's face. "You slithering _bastard!_ You knew about Maria, didn't you? Answer me or be damned!" The enraged hunter pulled Simon back from the only to drive him back into it. The structure creaked again, louder this time while issuing a series of alarming cracks.

"Hunter, please listen," Simon begged, managing to sound dignified despite the blade at his throat. "I am not long for life, and I would not leave it behind having made another enemy." The Hunter of Hunters contemplated the possible consequences of allowing Simon to speak. The injured hunter took Garvan's hesitation as an invitation to continue.

"I am truly sorry, Garvan, about Lady Maria," said Simon. Garvan's temper flared, but Simon pressed on before the Hunter of Hunters decided to slit his throat. "I could not have known the bond that would develop betwixt you. I knew only that she guarded the Astral Clocktower, and that she presided over the Healing Church experiments in the research hall. I swear it on my-"

"You lie with your forked tongue!" Garvan interrupted, pressing the edge of his siderite blade harder into Simon's throat. A thin trickle of blood ran down the injured man's neck.

"Nay, it is not so," Simon wheezed, still calm. Another bout of coughing arrested him before he could go on. "The secrets of this place have been kept from me by the Healing Church Assassin, Brador-now more beast than man. He revels in sadism and blood. It is his handiwork that you see here before you." Simon gestured to his perforated chest with one of his mangled hands, three of the fingers bent at odd angles.. "So long as Brador draws breath, the Church will guard their secrets with relentless devotion to their twisted view of divinity."

"What does this have to do with Maria, Simon?" Garvan snapped, his patience waning. "Get to your point!"

"My friend, do you really think that the _Nightmare _elected Lady Maria to guardianship over its heart?" Simon asked. Garvan's grip on the wounded hunter's collar slackened as the gears in his head started to turn. "Lady Maria oversaw the experiments in the research hall, and she tried to escape her guilt by ending her own life. Instead, she fell into this hellish place. Yes, the Nightmare is a curse for hunters, but it was the _Church_ who bound Maria to watch over the tower. They would not-" Simon's chest heaved as he choked on another fit of coughs. Blood sprayed from his mouth onto the faceplate of Garvan's helm and ran down the collection grooves. The harrowed hunter reached up and clung to the other hunter's arm to support himself as his strength failed him. "They would not let their secrets go so easily, nor let a valuable resource such as Maria slip through their fingers."

Garvan wrestled with Simon's explanation. Through all the information he dug up in the old archives, and in the face of all that he had seen of the Healing Church, it did stretch his imagination very far to see the picture Simon painted. In any case, what reason did the dying man have to lie? Garvan's anger cooled and drained away like rain through a gutter. Pity, absent when the hunter first confronted Simon, emerged from its hiding place and took its seat at the table.

"This Brador, where is he?" Garvan asked, gently lowering Simon into a sitting position propped up against the wall. The injured hunter slumped back, but he continued to draw labored breaths.

"The underground dungeon. Beneath the bone piles-and the church infirmary," Simon said, struggling to string the words together. The wheeze in his chest thickened with each pause. Fumbling at his belt with mangled fingers, Simon produced a key ring and held it up for Garvan. "He hides there. Projects himself by spellcraft. A sinister bell or chime. Find his cell. Stop him." The rattle in Simon's chest intensified, and the harrowed hunter's shallow respiration became rapid.

"Easy now," Garvan said, kneeling down beside the dying man. "This Nightmare is over for you. Leave the rest to me, and be at peace." He took one of Simon's hands into both of his own and held it tight. To his surprise, the injured hunter squeezed back with surprising strength. He pulled Garvan closer, his trembling voice little more than a whisper.

"Listen, friend," Simon rasped. "What happens when you die in a dream?" His intense gaze pleaded with Garvan, the sharp ice blue eyes urging the Hunter of Hunters to comprehend. Simon repeated himself: "What happens when you die in a dream?"

"Simon, it is alright," Garvan said, trying as best he could to soothe the dying man. "Wherever you are going will be a better place. I promise." Nobody knew for certain what awaited those who passed beyond the reach of dreams, but the Hunter of Hunters preferred an optimistic lie over a cruel truth.

"No, Garvan," Simon said, struggling for each syllable. "What happens when you_ die in a dream_?" He repeated the question again, emphasizing the last bit as much as his fading voice would allow. Without the time or mental fortitude to explain to the Hunter of Hunters in full, he relied on the man to figure it out for himself.

"I'm not sure what you want, Simon," Garvan admitted. Simon did not strike him as the type of individual who needed to hear affirmations to believe in them. Could it be that Simon was not as confident as he appeared? "Your work is done, you can rest now. Go knowing you did not make an enemy of me"

Simon appeared as if he still wanted to speak, but the froth of bubbling blood at the corners of his mouth indicated that he no longer could. The harrowed hunter shuddered a final time before going still, and for the third time since coming to Yharnam, Garvan watched a life slip through his arms.

The drum of rain on the lighthouse annex roof drew attention to how quiet the world felt when left to face it alone. Listening to the wind, rain, and the creak of the old structure, Garvan understood how isolation inevitably led to insanity.

Scooping Simon's body off the floor and away from the pool of blood, Garvan set Simon down in the opposite corner and crouched down to close his eyes. He tore a wide strip of tattered cloth from Simon's ruined clothes and covered the dead man's face. Without knowing to whom or why, Garvan uttered a short prayer for the Simon the Harrowed before turning to leave.

A messenger lamp that Garvan didn't remember seeing stood in the middle of the annex. Thinking better of questioning the logic of such conveniences, he waved his hand over it. An ethereal glow came to life inside. Pale violet light cut long swaths across the gloom, and phantasmal messengers emerged from the floorboards to tend the newly activated gateway to the Hunter's Dream. In his original plan, Garvan intended to restock on supplies and ammunition before venturing deeper into the Nightmare. Instead, it seemed he would require a detour to pay Simon's killer a visit.

The little messengers chittered and uttered their wheezing groans as the Last Crow of Yharnam knelt before the lamp. He extended his hand toward the light and focused his thoughts on the Hunter's Dream. A cold haze rose from the earth and rolled in around Garvan's knees. It crawled up his body like ivy and spread into a thick, obfuscating fog. When it cleared, the Last Crow of Yharnam was gone.

*;*;*

Back in the Hunter's Dream, Garvan toiled. Hour after hour the rhythmic clang of hammering and the bubbling of arcane extraction tools filled the small workshop. He worked with various shards and chunks of bloodstone to fortify the Rakuyo as detailed by the ritualistic fortification rites.

Some shards the hunter ground into a fine powder, which he then heated until it liquified, and used to coat the blades. Others were used like whetstone to hone the weapon's sharp edges. The final steps for true masterwork fortification, however, required a rare form of bloodstone known as a "blood rock." Having found only two throughout his hunt, the Hunter of Hunters already utilized one to perfect the Blade of Mercy. Garvan saved the second blood rock for a weapon he deemed worthy, but he never expected to find his beloved's lost Rakuyo.

With the help of a large vat and the fire burning in the workshop hearth, Garvan prepared to extract the arcane product of the blood rock without breaking it first. He brought a stew of melted coldblood to a simmer in the vat. The coldblood acted as an insulating agent to keep the blood rock from shattering due to heat shock. Once the coldblood started to bubble, Garvan lowered the heat and submerged the blood rock in the concoction. The hunter kept a sharp eye the bubbling vat; one false move could ruin the blood rock's essence, and all of his effort would amount to nothing.

When the blood rock started to float atop the boiling coldblood, Garvan extracted it from the vat and plunged the arcane extractor into the rock's surface. The needle tip pierced the softened exterior and reached its core with little resistance. Drawing back the plunger on the extractor, the glass vial filled with a glowing crimson liquid. The blood rock essence shone so bright it was difficult to look at directly, so Garvan shielded the vial in his hands.

With the Rakuyo laid flat on the workbench surface, Garvan took the extractor syringe and began dispensing the fluid one drop at a time onto the weapon's blades. Each drop emitted a brilliant red flash when it met the blade before the weapon drank it in like a sponge.

Garvan applied drop after drop until he emptied the vial and set the arcane extractor aside to examine his work. The weapon hummed with power, a silent resonance that called to the blood echoes coursing through the hunter's veins. Perhaps the blade sensed his connection to Maria, or maybe it simply expressed loyalty to the hunter who recovered it from exile. Whatever the case, Garvan reached for the weapon's hilt and found that the Rakuyo felt comfortable in his hands. An unexpected yearning bloomed in his heart, but it did not cause him pain. Instead, Garvan felt warmed by the feeling, as if the momento allowed him to help Maria right the wrongs that filled her with such deep regret. Garvan fastened the Rakuyo to the hip opposite his Blade of Mercy and turned to exit the workshop.

*;*;*

The headstone marking the gate to the Hunter's Nightmare awaited him just outside the workshop. Garvan knelt before the grave and focused his mind on the underground corpse pile. A familiar haze crawled over him and darkness closed in. When it receded receded, the Last Crow of Yharnam stood in the middle of the chamber that served as an arena for his battle with Ludwig.

At the time of their battle, Garvan felt it fitting at that hunter touted as "The Holy Blade" should be laid low by Ludwig's Holy Sword-a weapon of Ludwig's own design. Standing there in the silence with the severed head of the hunter-turned-beast, it no longer felt so fitting. Garvan crossed the room and crouched beside the remains of the mutated Healing Church hunter.

"Would I have felt differently had I known you, Ludwig?" he asked. The Hunter of Hunters studied Maria so that he could defeat her, but instead grew attached and sympathetic to her plight. If Ludwig impeded his progress in the same way, would things have ended differently? Ludwig carried the banner of the Healing Church in his time, but Garvan knew better than to measure a man by his benefactors. From what the Hunter of Hunters understood, Ludwig trained his followers to conduct themselves with honor and selflessness. The Holy Blade went so far as to train common Yharnamites in the ways of the hunt so they could protect themselves from the Scourge of Beasts. When Garvan came upon the disgraced hunter in the Nightmare, however, he saw only another Cleric Beast.

'_Another spirit to haunt my thoughts,'_ Garvan thought, shaking his head. The hunter stepped around the severed head and trudged through the thick river of blood running through the chamber. Ascending the stairs at the back of the chamber, Garvan turned into the corridor leading to the prison cells. The Hunter of Hunters wondered if Brador knew who held the key to his cell.

Rounding the corner at the end of the corridor, Garvan drew his pistol and squeezed off two rounds down the intersecting hallway. A yowl of surprised agony rewarded his shot in the dark, and the report of a rifle followed. The muzzle flash illuminated a crippled old man clutching a rifle as his wheelchair tipped over and spilled him onto the floor. Sparks flew from the door beside the old man where his accidental discharge struck the metal bars.

Holding his aim down the hall, Garvan awaited the approach of the others that often occupied the dungeons. The silence stretched beyond the reach of hunter's patience, and a palpable aura of dread radiated from the shadows. A single chime rang out from the dark like the ring of a bell. Garvan did not _hear_ it so much as he _felt _it inside his mind. The sound bounced around inside of his head, dancing like windchimes in summer's breeze.

Wary of the ill omen, the hunter advanced down the corridor. When he reached the next junction, Garvan paused; the tip of a shoe poked out from around the corner. Brandishing his pistol and the Rakuyo, Garvan took the corner prepared for a fight. The gaunt, pale face of a church servant stared back at him from the floor. Blood pooled around the body and ran down towards Brador's cell through spillways formed by the gaps in the paving stones.

Garvan narrowed his eyes at the corpse. The pool of blood beneath the church servant continued to spread as it drained from the victim's body. Something, or some_one_, made the kill recently-_very_ recently, in fact.

The hunter's instincts screamed at him to move, and Garvan dove to his left and rolled back to his feet. A massive mace, covered in spikes of hardened blood, crashed into the stone wall where the Hunter of Hunters stood a moment before.

Garvan spun to face his attacker. An outline of glowing crimson framed the hostile apparition, and the Last Crow of Yharnam recognized it as an invading phantom. Shades of red and black overrode the spectre's original colors. However, given the apparition's frame and weapon, Garvan felt safe in the assumption he faced Brador, the Church Assassin.

The Hunter of Hunters snap-fired his pistol from the hip, but the bullet deflected off of his attacker in a shower of sparks. Brador lunged at Garvan swinging the mace from overhead. Surprised by the ineffectiveness of his firearm, the crowfeather-clad hunter nearly failed to evade the blow. Beast pellet-sized chunks of paving stone exploded from the floor where the mace blow fell..

Inside his foe's defenses, Garvan slashed across Brador's stomach with the Rakuyo only for the weapon to rebound, like his bullet, as if striking iron. Unfazed, Brador lashed out with the pommel of his mace and struck Garvan square in the chest. The Hunter of Hunters reeled back and struck the wall. He recovered with just enough time to evade the follow-up blow from the business end of the mace. Doubling back, Garvan put some distance between himself and the crimson phantom.

Garvan racked his brain. A lead elixir, there could be no other explanation for the projection's exceptional resistance to damage. Such a concoction hardened the body like solid iron, but dulled the drinker's speed. The hunter clenched his jaw as realized Brador's thinking. In such close quarters, speed mattered little. Garvan needed to allow the elixir's effects to wear off; they lasted two, maybe three, minutes at most. If the Hunter of Hunters evaded the invading phantom long enough, he might be able to make his move before the Church Assassin could drink another.

Holstering his pistol, Garvan reached into his equipment pouch as Brador lurched towards him. The crowfeather-clad hunter's form vanished in a cloud of dusty gray smoke only to appear a split second later at the red phantom's flank. Unable to swing the massive mace around in the narrow corridor, the invader threw his shoulder into the Hunter of Hunters. Again, Garvan vanished in a cloud of smoke before the blow fell. Brador's shoulder met the wall instead of his prey, and it split the stone brick which bore the impact of his leaden weight.

Like a rampaging beast, Brador's phantom charged after Garvan's retreating form. Dust and debris shook free from the dungeon's walls and ceiling at every impact of the assassin's mace. The Hunter of Hunters weaved through the heavy weapon's crushing blows, but the hardened spines of coldblood raked across his coat and cloak with increasing frequency.

When Garvan felt he couldn't keep up with his evasion any longer he put as much distance as possible between himself and the phantom. Raising his pistol, Garvan squeezed off a shot at the incoming assassin. The round deflected from the invader's shoulder. Garvan pulled the trigger a second time. Again, the bullet ricocheted from Brador's enchanted flesh.

Sensing desperation in his prey, Brador lengthened his stride. With the assassin barreling towards him at full tilt, Garvan fired a third shot, then a fourth. Both glanced off of Brador's body without effect. As the invader neared the Hunter of Hunters, Garvan squeezed off one, final shot.

A spray of crimson bloomed from the meat of Brador's right shoulder. Garvan needed no further invitation. He sprang forward, dropping his pistol, and ducked under the mace while sweeping the Rakuyo across Brador's stomach as he passed. Behind the stunned assassin, Garvan stopped, shifted his weight, and thrust the short blade on the bottom of the Rakuyo's hilt upward and back. It pierced deep into the base of the assassin's skull. The red phantom collapsed to its knees and dissolved into mist.

Garvan's shoulders heaved as he labored for breath. The stale, gunpowder-choked air of the dungeon clawed burning furrows in his lungs, but Garvan kept sucking it down anyway. Sweat poured down his face and soaked his coat. It felt like a long time since last he felt so winded after a fight.

When Garvan caught his breath, he stooped to recover his discarded flintlock and holstered it on his hip. He turned toward the cell door behind which the flesh and blood Brador waited and started toward it.

_Crunch. Crunch. Crunch._

Fragments of pulverized stone crunched underfoot as The Last Crow made his way to the heavy wood and iron door. Producing the underground cell key from a pouch on his belt, Garvan slid the key into the lock and cranked it until the rusted mechanism released the bolt. He pressed his hand to the wood and heaved, and the corroded hinges screeched in displeasure at being disturbed.

"Well, well, look who's here." The croaking voice of Brador sounded more feeble than Garvan expected from the Healing Church assassin. "Welcome to my quarters. I've never entertained a guest before." Brador, seated on the floor tipped his hooded head up to look at the crowfeather-clad Hunter of Hunters. "Are you going to kill me?"

"Yes," Garvan said, wiping the blood still clinging to Rakuyo clean with the feathers of his cloak.

"After all _you've_ done, kill me, as if to right your wrongs?" Brador began to laugh, a pathetic rasping sound that caused the Hunter of Hunters to sneer.

"I'm not here for me, assassin," Garvan said, moving towards Brador until he stood looming over the seated man. "I am here for Simon, for Maria, and to fulfil the duty of a Hunter of Hunters." This earned another wheezing laugh from Brador.

"You think yourself less a monster than I?" Brador asked, making no attempt to hide the amusement in his tone.

"No," Garvan said, and thrust the Rakuyo's tip into Brador's stomach. "But I'm a monster with enough time left to right a few wrongs."

The assassin face twisted into a grimace and wounded growl rumbled in his throat. Disdain flashed in Brador's eyes. Garvan held the assassin's stare, unmoved, as he twisted the blade and churned Brador's innards. Thick streams of blood poured from the assassin's mouth and his eyes rolled around in their sockets. Garvan reached down, clamped his hand around Brador's throat, and forced the dying man to look his killer in the face.

"Your victims are avenged," said Garvan, and added the final insult. "The secrets of your Church belong to me now."

Letting go of Brador, the Hunter of Hunters raised his foot and kicked the assassin off of his sword. Brador's blood-soaked clothes made a wet slapping sound on the stone as he collapsed on the floor. One last ragged gasp escaped the dying man before the rise and fall of his chest went still. Garvan felt neither pity nor remorse.

The Last Crow of Yharnam felt no catharsis in Brador's death, but he hoped that Simon's spirit might find peace through it. The possibility provided the Hunter of Hunters a measure of hope; a small one, mind you, but even the match flame of a small victory provided enough motivation to spur him on a little longer.

Garvan spared a moment of consideration for the corpse. The grime-filled spaces between floor stones filled with blood and ran out towards the walls in neat lines. Eager squeaking echoed from the various ratholes in the cell's corners as the scent of fresh kill roused the hiding scavengers' appetites. The hunter turned away from Brador's body and exited the cell, content to let the rats have their fill of the assassin's remains.

*;*;*

With his personal matters concluded, Garvan resumed his journey fighting through the Fishing Hamlet. Given what he learned from Simon, hatred for the Healing Church drove the hunter to push even harder to reach the Nightmare's heart. He coursed with a mad desire to dismantle their secrets and drag them writhing into the light piece by piece. Those unfortunate souls standing in his way were blessed with a swift death at the hunter's hands. Garvan felt it deep in his bones-he was close to the end. Soon, he would fulfil the purpose Maria sacrificed herself for.

Yet all the while, somewhere beneath the surface thoughts and behind the hunter's dogged advance, he felt that Maria must be disappointed in him. Garvan, whose compassionate heart persevered for so long in spite of Yharnam's unending horrors, had silenced his spirit's empathetic melody. Instead, he succumbed to the temptations of hate and vengeance-each promising tangible gratification for his efforts. Garvan told himself that he only used them to fulfil his vow to Maria. After all, he wasn't strong enough without them, was he?

Garvan repeated the lie to himself each time he cleaned the blood from his blade. It still didn't quite sit right in his stomach.

Reasoning aside, the Blades of Mercy sang their eerie, thrumming song. Garvan danced in time to their music, savaging the blighted townsfolk with lethal grace. He spared the Rakuyo a part in his performance. The weapon already felt too heavy in his hands with the weight of old sins to dare baptize it in new ones.

Beyond the lighthouse shack in which Garvan met with Simon for the last time, the Last Crow of Yharnam descended the trail leading down to the shore. Mutated fish-women prostrated themselves on either side of the path, heedless of the passing hunter as he strode through the narrow aisle they left unobstructed. It occurred to him that should they decide to turn on him all at once that he might not make it down to the beach. Yet, despite his suspicion, the fish-women never so much as spared him a passing glance.

Stepping out from the cave onto the rocky beach, Garvan beheld the Nightmare Moon in all of its sickly splendor. The mottled yellow orb, webbed with corruption at the fringe like the iris of a plague victim, cast it's corpselight glow across the ocean's rippling surface. Underfoot, the gravelly stone of the upper beach crunched beneath the hunter's stride. From the lower beach a deep, wailing cry rose above the pelting rain and rumble of the ocean.

Garvan stopped when he spotted a shuddering humanoid figure crouched beside the remains of some other, much less humanoid, creature. The crouching figure rocked itself on its knees, and issued another string of strangled sobs. It stirred Garvan's memories of a previous encounter from much earlier in the hunt. Vicar Amelia, even after she transformed into a Cleric Beast, praying for deliverance. Then Father Gascoigne's face passed through his mind, driven to a sorrowful rage by his wife's death-a death dealt by his own hand. Some part of Gascoigne knew what he'd done and it filled him with grief and regret. Garvan witnessed the grief in the monster on the beach, and wished desperately that he hadn't. Though buried and muted, the hunter's heart would not ignore the humanizing scene in front of him. It dampened his fury and robbed him of his appetite for revenge. The creature had lost something, too.

The sobbing aberration looked up at Garvan, sensing his presence. For a moment the Hunter of Hunters thought he spied a fleeting glint of fear-and furthermore _recognition_-on the creature's face. The eerily human expression gave way to unmistakable rage. It rose to its full height and unleashed a blood-curdling howl.

Gripping the Blade of Mercy tight, Garvan pulled the weapon into its trick form. In response, the creature hefted a bloody lump of meat to serve as a weapon of its own. Taken aback by the grotesque mound of flesh, the Last Crow of Yharnam recognized with mounting horror that the creature clutched its own _placenta_. The final piece of the puzzle then clicked into place.

Maria's guilt, the condemnation of Byrgenwerth, the Nightmare's curse of the hunters, and the measures taken by the Healing Church's to hide the evidence. All of it pointed to one, heinous truth: whatever other sins the Old Hunters committed, they _created_ the monster before him through feticide. The creature, child of a Great One, had been murdered and _defiled_ before ever taking its first real breath. Sorrow and disgust twisted his guts into knots.

"I'm sorry," said Garvan, his heart hammering against his ribs. "But because of what they did to you, I have to do this. When it's over, please forgive me if you can." He didn't even know if he was doing the right thing. Maybe the hunters all deserved to be cursed to pay for the atrocities of their forebears, or maybe they suffered enough. At what point did the scales balance on sins versus their pound of flesh? Did things ever break even, or was moral ambiguity just the natural state of existence? Such questions and those like them would likely keep Garvan awake at night assuming he ever dared sleep again.

Whether or not it understood the hunter's words, the Orphan leapt towards him with unbelievable speed and brought its weapon down with pulverizing force. Garvan juked back in time to avoid being crushed by the strike. A spray of sand and shattered stone pelted his armor, but the hunter caught his footing and reversed course. Bringing both of his Blades of Mercy around, he raked the Orphan's flesh. The blow rent two deep gashes in the meat of its forearm, and thick streams of deep crimson blood poured from the wounds.

The monster screeched in anguish, craning its head back to howl into the Nightmare sky. Garvan flinched resisting the urge to clap his hands over his ears. A high-pitched ringing filled his skull, his head aching from the aural assault. Dazed and struggling to push the sudden headache to the back of his mind, the Hunter of Hunters failed to avoid the Orphan's renewed charge.

Dodging back at the last moment allowed the hunter to avoid bearing the full force of the Orphan's swinging flesh cudgel. Even still, the glancing blow sent Garvan sprawling across the beach like tumbleweed. Pain flared in the right side of his chest, and he felt a grinding sensation in his ribs upon trying to recover his footing.

Before the hunter could reach for a blood vial, the Orphan ripped a hunk of meat from its weapon and hurled it at him. Garvan sprang to the side to avoid the projectile, but the Orphan followed up with a swift lunging slash. A fresh white-hot pain bloomed in the hunter's fracture ribs as he rolled under the swing and closer to the monstrosity. Using the opportunity he created inside the monster's defense, Garvan plunged both Blades of Mercy into the Orphan's side.

Another agonized cry pierced the night, and it threw its arm in a wide arc attempting to smash the hunter. Garvan ducked the wild swing and jumped back. Ragged ribbons of flesh dangled from the Orphan's body like old bandage wrappings, torn free by the jagged edges of the siderate blades.

The monster recovered more quickly than Garvan expected, and it swept its weapon in a low arc. Four blood projectiles shot out like quills; one struck the Hunter in his hip. He dropped to one knee, hissing through clenched teeth. The projectile melted away and allowed blood to flow freely from the puncture.

The Orphan screamed with rage, and Garvan watched it leapt into the air, weapon poised to smash him into the ground. The hunter rolled forward and the jumping strike overshot him. Beneath him the earth trembled from the impact.

Using his momentary breathing room, the Hunter of Hunters yanked a blood vial from his belt and rammed the needle into his leg. When his thumb depressed the plunger the broken ribs began to realign and fuse back together. The puncture in his hip sealed itself up, too, and the injection stimulated the rapid replenishment of his lost blood. With his stamina beginning to wane, the hunter recognized the necessity of putting a swift end to the fight.

Garvan turned and sprinted towards the cliff wall bordering their arena. Behind, the furious Orphan bellowed after him. The Hunter felt the monstrosity's heavy footfalls drawing closer as it charged after him, but he didn't dare look over his shoulder. Victory depended on perfect timing and the nerve to see it through.

Reaching the cliff wall, the Hunter of Hunters spun around to face the charging Orphan. He stood his ground as the creature bore down on him, drawing back its macabre mace. When the Orphan loosed its mighty swing, the Hunter sidestepped the attack and let the blow collide with the wall. Chunks of stone rained down upon him, pinging off of Garvan's helm and gauntlets like gunfire. The hunter swept in to exploit the opening.

The Blade of Mercy flashed its silvery light as Garvan flourished the weapon. He thrust the blade into the Orphan's forearm right between the bones. Empowered by the mystical siderite, it pierced clean through the limb and drove into the stone of the cliff face.

The Orphan cried out when Garvan impaled its arm. It yanked at the blade anchoring it to the stone, but the Blade of Mercy held firm. One or two more fierce tugs might have freed the creature, but time favored the Hunter. He flipped the Blade of Mercy's twin into a backhand grip and stabbed high into the meat of the Orphan's drooping shoulder. Using the weapon like a climber's pick, Garvan hoisted himself up and planted his foot on the back of the monster's bowed head. It flailed beneath the hunter, and Garvan struggled to maintain his footing.

Before the Orphan could shake him off, Garvan coiled and pushed off as hard as he could straight up into the air. At the apex of his ascent, the Hunter drew Ludwig's Holy Blade from his back. He brought it up over his head and let gravity do the rest.

Garvan fell upon the Orphan like a guillotine. The heavy weapon impacted the creature atop the skull with a wet crunch. It cleaved through the skull, splitting the head and neck before veering off-center, snapping three ribs, and coming to an abrupt halt. The sudden stop broke Garvan's grip, and he dropped down to the beach below. His knees buckled and he collapsed backwards, landing flat before getting up on his elbows. Likewise, the Orphan collapsed as well. It began to dissolve into a mass of briny blood and ichor before it even hit the ground. In moments the cadaver melted away without a trace, Ludwig's Holy Blade and the Blade of Mercy left laying flat in the sand.

A black mist rose from the earth near the corpse of the Orphan's mother. It coalesced into a humanoid shape, a phantasmic suggestion of a silhouette more than a figure. Garvan returned to his feet regarding the apparition with a wary eye. Keeping watch on the misty presence out of the corner of his eye, the Hunter of Hunters retrieved the Blade of Mercy still embedded in the cliff face.

The black spirit did not react as Garvan approached it. As he neared, the sound of soft sobbing reached his ears. He recalled that the monstrous Orphan had been grieving over the body of its mother when he first arrived on the beach. The spirit must have been the true essence of the Orphan, still bound to the Nightmare. Garvan found it sad that it should be trapped like the very hunters subjected to its curse.

"You're almost free," said Garvan. Cocking his arm, he swiped the Blade of Mercy through the apparition's torso. The weapon emitted dazzling silver flash as the weapon passed through the black mist. The figure dissipated, and though the crying faded away, Garvan thought he heard a gentle sigh of relief as the mist swept out to sea on the ocean breeze.

Suddenly, the hunter felt an immense presence in his midst-something ethereal and unseen. Like a quilt it settled over him, and warmth spread through his body. It started at the top of his head and spilled down his scalp. It ran over his ears and face, down his neck, down his chest. Down, down, down it traveled spilling not only over him, but _through_ him as well. The corruption in his blood burned away like noontime shadows withering beneath the sun's radiance. Garvan did not understand _how _he knew that the warmth purged his curse, he simply _did_.

A flood of feelings, feelings he recognized as not his own, infiltrated his mind. While fuzzy at first, they started to evolve and take shape like a distant shore through a sailor's spyglass. It took a moment, but Garvan started to understand the foreign sensations were meant as a means of communication. The presence surrounding him either could not, or dared not, attempt a more direct means of contact. Furthermore, he sensed that it did so out of consideration for Garvan's fragile human psyche.

Overwhelming gratitude spilled into the Hunter's head with such force that he thought it might cause him to weep. It was a mother's gratitude, of that much Garvan felt certain. As such, what else might the presence be if not the Orpan's mother? Yes, it was _Kos_.

The sensation of forgiveness followed, and the Hunter of Hunters understood that the Great One's absolution extended beyond him. Kos lifted the Curse of Blood from _all_ the afflicted hunters, and those trapped in the Nightmare would be set free. A bittersweet pang of devotion echoed in the hollows of Garvan's chest.

'_I did it, Maria,'_ he thought. _'The Nightmare is over. You're free. We're _all_ free.'_

Kos's empathy swelled in Garvan's mind. While true understanding between Great Ones and humans might forever be a distant hope, the eldritch being understood the pain of loss and helplessness like few others could. A gentle wave of hope and reassurance rolled in after the empathy, small at first but building up to a high crest before crashing down on him.

'_What happens when you die in a dream?'_ The presence sharing Garvan's headspace pulled Simon's last words up from memory. The phrase echoed several times in his head.

"You wake up," the Hunter said aloud, the words tumbling from his lips as if he knew the answer all along. He stood there dumbstruck for a long moment as he came to the summit of comprehension before barreling down the far slope like a boulder. "You _wake up_!" A fresh surge of hope filled the hunter's heart-his own this time-as the implications brought him to a conclusion he should have reached a long while ago.

"Maria lives in the waking world!"

Without any further fanfare, Kos's presence departed from the Hunter of Hunters. The sensation of sharing his mind faded, their connection drawing thin and frail before breaking off altogether. Wherever she journeyed next, Garvan hoped it brought her back to her child.

For his part, the Hunter of Hunters had done all he could to right the wrongs of the Old Hunters. Yharnam, however, still toiled in the grip of unspeakable horror brought about by the combined hubris of Mensis, the Healing Church, and Byrgenwerth. The Church, the Choir, the Nightmare of Mensis, and even the Hunter's Dream-he would tear it all down to find Maria again.

A gang of spectral Messengers sprouted from the sand nearby like sea turtles emerging from their nests. With them they brought a lantern, and its pale light spilled across the sand. Garvan moved towards the lantern, scooping up Ludwig's Holy Sword as he passed and sheathing it on his back.

Kneeling at the small lantern post, the hunter reached for the lamplight and focused his thoughts on the Dream Workshop. Somewhere out there, a _different_ beast at the heart of a _different _nightmare awaited the Last Crow of Yharnam. Whatever it took, wherever it led him, Garvan would find Maria again. After all, a hunter must hunt.

*;*;*

Beneath layer after layer of stone and iron, in the shadow of the Healing Church Hunter Workshop, a pair of pale blue eyes snapped open. A desperate gasp for air stirred the silence like wind through the autumn leaves. Lady Maria, startled to be breathing at all, felt her heart drum a painful rhythm against her ribs. Outside the dilapidated structure of the abandoned old Hunter's Workshop, Maria stood atop the long-settled dirt of her own grave.

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To be continued in The Last Crow of Yharnam: Act III

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**Author Note:** I would like to thank all of my beloved readers for their patience in waiting for the second act of The Last Crow of Yharnam. Some of you are probably going to be disappointed that this doesn't feature more Maria, but it felt too rushed every time I tried to condense the story to get them back together. So rather than write crappy filler, I thought I would bring you along for the ride through Garvan's struggle in coping with loss while trying to stay true to his purpose. Act III will have a lot more Maria, and will be the final installment of the trilogy, so prepare for a climactic conclusion! Thanks again for your patience. Stay tuned!


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